Dreaming
by TheNextFolchart
Summary: "You came all the way to Hogwarts to tell me you've been dreaming about torturing me?" / For Nasim, with all of my procrastinate-y love


**Dreaming**

 _Written completely and utterly for Nasim._

 _Dramione is weird af._

* * *

He's not sure what makes him do it—whether it's the recurring nightmares, or the appetite he's lost, or the letter from Azkaban telling him his father is dead—but before he can talk himself out of it, he finds himself at Hogwarts, facing the Fat Lady's portrait.

He doesn't offer a password, and she doesn't ask; they simply pretend not to see each other for an uncomfortable seventeen minutes until Hermione sweeps around the corner.

She sees him. Stops.

"Hear me out," he says.

She narrows her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't know. "Had to find you."

"Why?"

He doesn't _know._ "My father's dead."

He knows what she wants to say—sees her jaw flex as she tries to hold back the insult. "I'm sorry," she says instead.

He swallows. "Can we talk?"

"I don't think that—"

"Please, Granger."

He watches her tighten her arms around her books. He watches her press her lips together. "Come with me."

* * *

In spite of the fire last year, the Room of Requirement is still standing.

She leads him inside to a large red sofa in front of a roaring fire—he wishes she hadn't chosen something quite so bright—and sets her books down on a gleaming coffee table. "Talk," she says.

He waits for her to sit. She doesn't.

"Look," she says, "if you're just going to waste my time—"

"I'm not."

"So what do you _want,_ Malfoy?"

He swallows. "I needed to see you."

"You've said that already."

The heat from the fire is making him sweat. "Would you—could you sit down, or something?"

"No."

"Fine." He sits, breaking their eye contact so he can stare at his shoes. "I've been having this dream."

She waits.

"It's about last year, when the Snatchers brought you and Potter and Weasel to my house, and then my aunt . . . you know."

She waits.

"And then, in my dream, she makes _me_ . . . you know." Despite the fire, a shiver runs through him. "And I—"

"Stop." She sounds furious. He looks up at her. "You came all the way to Hogwarts to tell me you've been dreaming about torturing me?"

He doesn't answer.

"What do you expect me to say to that?" She's breathing hard. "Do you want me to comfort you? Tell you it's all right?" She has her wand clenched in her right fist. "Do you want me to _forgive_ you? Alleviate some of your _guilt_?"

"Granger, I—"

"Do you think you are the only one who has _dreams_?"

"No!" Something hot rushes through him, prompting him to stand. He is nearly six inches taller than she is, and he _likes_ that she has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, he _likes_ that he still has some modicum of power. The anger that has been building in his stomach for the past two years growls in approval as he reaches instinctively for his wand.

She follows the motion with her eyes. "So you're going to live out the fantasy, then? You came here to torture me?"

"No."

"Do you want me to torture _you_? Make us even?"

" _No._ "

"Do you want me to cry with you over your dead father?"

He says it before he can think: "I'm glad he's dead."

"We've got something in common, then! The world is _infinitely_ better off without—Malfoy?"

He's sobbing. The heat from the fire dries the tears against his cheeks before they can fall, but he is _sobbing,_ his body is shaking, and he sinks back into the couch with the anger roiling sickeningly in his stomach. " _I'm glad he's dead_ ," he says.

Hermione watches him for a moment, and then she sits, too. "Do you want me to go?" she asks.

He shakes his head.

"D'you want me to—Madame Pomfrey—"

"I don't need bloody Pomfrey."

"Oh."

They sit for a few moments longer, until he has himself under control. "Sorry," he says.

"Don't be. It's all—"

He interrupts. "Did you know that I used to fancy you?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "No."

He lets out a little laugh.

"When did you—"

"Ages ago. Second year, probably. Definitely got over it for awhile when you hit me round the face in third, though."

A slight smile creeps across her face. "I won't apologize for that."

"You were infuriating."

She sniffs. "Well, isn't that just the pot calling the kettle black."

"Maybe we deserve each other."

He expects her to deny it— _wants_ her to deny it—but she doesn't.

"Why didn't you tell me you fancied me?" she asks

The smirk that used to come so naturally to his lips is a little stiff. "We were thirteen. You can't tell anyone anything at thirteen."

(They both know that's not the real reason.)

"I always liked Fred Weasley, anyway," she says. "I would have turned you down."

The silence that settles over them is almost comfortable.

"Why did you come back here?" he asks.

"To Hogwarts?" She nods toward her books on the coffee table. "To finish my magical education."

He shakes his head. "Why did you really come back?"

She sighs and gazes into the fire for a moment. "Dreams," she says finally.

"What kind of dreams?"

"Same as yours." She closes her eyes. "People getting hurt. People dying. Feeling helpless."

"Why didn't you leave, then?" he asks. "Why not leave it behind and try to forget?"

She opens her eyes. "I'm a Gryffindor. I don't exactly run from things."

He nods like he understands. "I'm a Slytherin. I'm tired of running."

They go quiet again.

"I _am_ sorry about your father."

"Thanks."

Quiet.

"Did you ever dream about me?" he asks.

"No."

He can't decide if he's disappointed.

"Ron's left me," she says.

He raises his eyebrows. "I—"

"Sorry," she says. She's smirking—it's a smirk he recognizes, a smirk he's _worn_ , he can see the bitterness and pain lurking behind it, and he has the sudden urge to bloody _comfort_ her. "I dunno why I just told you that. You probably don't care."

He shrugs. "If you can pretend to be sorry about my father, I can pretend to be sorry about this."

She looks thoughtful. "You and I have never had a conversation alone before, have we?"

"I don't think so."

"You're not nearly as rude when you're not trying to impress your friends." Her smirk melts into something more genuine. "I just thought you might like to know."

They bust out laughing at the same time. The roaring fire has died down a little.

"Why did you come here today, Malfoy?"

He takes a breath. "To see you."

"But why—"

"To _see_ you, Hermione." It is easier to admit the second time.

"But I don't—"

"Merlin's beard, they told me you were smart." He leans over and nudges her shoulder with his own.

"So." Her voice has dropped to a whisper. Her tone is the color of doubt. "The only thing holding you back—all this time—was your father?"

He shakes his head. "Of course not. We both know it's more complicated than that."

She looks into the fire. "So why—"

"I don't have a bloody reason."

She shivers a little, and points her wand at the fireplace. The flames within jump back up to their original height, flooding the room with heat.

"Look," he says. "I'm not asking you to—to _be_ anything to me. I just needed to tell you."

"Good."

Something in his chest—something he didn't realize was _there_ —deflates. "I was a prat to you," he says. "For years. And I'm sorry."

She nods.

"And if you ever—I dunno, if you want to make Weasel jealous—"

She glances at him, and he cuts himself off.

"I did dream about you," she says. "Once."

"You did?"

"Yes."

He waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn't.

"I should go," she says. "I need to study. NEWTs are coming up."

"Okay."

Neither of them moves.

"I could study here." She looks at her stack of books. "It's certainly quieter than the Gryffindor common room."

"I'll leave you to it."

Neither of them moves.

"Draco."

"Yes?"

"You know it would never work."

He is very, very careful not to let his face move.

"It's just—" She swallows. "I don't want to make Ron jealous."

There's a very slight emphasis on the word _want._

Suddenly, all at once, Draco understands.

"Well," he says, leaning back into the couch and propping his feet up on the coffee table. "Let's just not let him find out, shall we?"

A blush blooms across her cheeks. "It's not just that," she says. "Your friends would never accept me."

"Haven't got any anymore. They're all in Azkaban, or they've fled the country. It's just been me and my mum for the past year." He smirks. "Next concern?"

"My friends would never accept you."

"I thought we aren't telling your friends?"

"Fine." She makes eye contact. "I'm at Hogwarts, and you're not."

She says it like a challenge, like she _wants_ him to find a way around it, like she's caught on to his game and she wants to play, too. He snorts and drapes an arm around the back of the couch so that it almost touches her shoulder. "You've got, what, a month left at Hogwarts? I'll visit."

"We have nothing in common."

His feet come down from the coffee table. "We're both still _here._ "

"You bullied me for my entire childhood."

He points to his eye, where her fist had once connected five long years ago. "Right back at you. Thank Merlin we've changed."

It elicits a giggle. "You're a _Slytherin._ "

"You're a Gryffindor. Believe me, I have a harder time with that one than you."

She's smiling, she's openly smiling, she's smiling _at him._ "Your father would—"

She cuts herself off, eyes widening.

Very gently, he reaches across the space between them and takes her hand. She lets him lace his fingers between hers. "My father can't do anything."

She takes a deep breath. "I'm afraid of you."

He moves closer to her, so that their bodies are nearly touching. "I don't want you to be."

She reaches for his other hand. A thrill courses through his veins. "Those are my reasons," she says quietly.

He feels, rather than sees, that she's trembling. "D'you want me to make the fire bigger?"

She shakes her head. "I want to hear your reasons."

He runs his thumb over the back of her hand. "I told you before," he says. "I don't have any bloody reasons. I just _know._ "

She bites down on her lower lip. "Think of one."

He frees one of his hands and traces it across her jawline. "My reason," he says, "is that you want it, too."

She doesn't deny it.

"What was your dream about?" he asks. His voice is barely above a whisper. "The one with me in it?"

Her lips twitch into a smile. "We were in the Great Hall, having dinner right next to each other. I asked you to pass the butter."

"That's all?"

"When you reached for it, I saw your Dark Mark was gone." She reaches for his sleeve.

"It's still there," he says. She stops. "It's faded down, but it's still there."

She pulls away from him and pushes up her own sleeve. The word _Mudblood,_ shockingly white against her skin, is stenciled into her forearm. "Mine, too."

He swears. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not." Her eyes have gone fiery. "It's a reminder. I will never forget what I survived."

He presses his lips together hard. "I suppose mine is the same, then."

They both look into the fireplace for a very long time.

She speaks first: "I want it."

"What?"

"I _want_ it."

His heart is pounding. "Prove it," he says.

She reaches for him.

Somewhere in the distance, the moon rises.


End file.
